Note: This is a seattlepi.com reader blog. It is not written or edited by the P-I. The authors are solely responsible for content. E-mail us at newmedia@seattlepi.com if you consider a post inappropriate.

A farmer and writer go to Cuba

When one daughter is a farmer and the other is a writer, and both are divorced, you pray that one or both don’t move in with you. At least that’s what I would do. But my parents don’t see it that way. They see our unique career paths as being proof that we are brave to follow our bliss and not settle for a job we hate or even feel lukewarm about. That we are considered in poverty according to Seattle standards, that my older sister actually did live with them for a while when she was far too old to (49), and are both very far from securing our retirement, which our parents taught us to do, is never judged. Or even mentioned. This is commendable even for hippie or artist parents, which they aren’t. My father came from a very modest background, earned a scholarship to Princeton, then went to Stanford for an MBA. Upon graduation he started working for a corporation where he happily climbed its ladder and was rewarded emotionally, intellectually and financially for doing so until he retired at the age of 63. My mother also attended Stanford for her graduate degree and Mount Holyoke for her undergraduate. My sister and I call our many (we liked to drop out occasionally) institutions of higher learning as, “Trix are for Kids school,” “Fruitloop U,” or on a good sarcastic day, “Harvard of the West.”

My parents not only tell us how proud of us they are, they view our non standard lifestyles as a bonus because it allows them to spend more time with us and our children. And during that time, they usually (OK always) pay for everything. And this includes fabulous trips that Stacy and I could only take in our imaginations. Sometimes we bring the kids, but sometimes we leave the kids at home. Another Lewars trait is being able to appreciate a lot of positives of divorce, meaning trips, dinners, and some weekends without the kids. Cuba was such a trip.

Not on the official tour. Thank you favorite Aunt and Uncle!

My father opted out of this trip, and the kids weren’t invited, but my favorite aunt and uncle from upstate New York were. They were hippies in the 60s and 70s, turned scholar and VP of a hospital for thirty years, and were now retired artists who ran a ceramics studio as a nonprofit and experienced birders. I’d fantasized about going to Cuba for over a decade so was giddy with excitement to be going with my always interesting aunt and uncle. And extra bonus was they loved researching cool places to visit while my mom read a book, my sister drank wine and I napped. We were a dream team.

You needed a reason to be in Cuba and an escort, so my mom chose a guided trip that focused on organic farms, the one supposed free press magazine in the country, and metal and ceramic artists. I couldn’t believe she’d found a trip that included all of our passions (my mom is a huge benefactor and connoisseur of the arts). I was so enthralled with reading about the organic farm we were going to visit in the hinterlands and the day we’d spend at Hemingway’s house that I failed to notice we were on a tour. Meaning, we’d be on a schedule and forced to be with other people. This is not the way the Lewars do things.

The pamphlet said we were supposed to arrive in Miami on a Thursday so we could have an orientation, meet one another, and then fly together to Cuba on Friday, so I showed up on Friday.

“How was the orientation?” I asked my sister and mom after hugging them hello.

“The chicken tasted like rubber,” Stacy said. My mom shrugged, telling me if she attended it, which was doubtful, she didn’t pay attention. We had our aunt and uncle, we didn’t need any other tour guides.

While waiting for the flight to Havana, I sidled up to our young tour guide. I introduced myself, made up some lame excuse of why I wasn’t at the orientation (probably pulled the single mom card, it never gets old) and then said, “I’m an introvert and don’t really do crowds, so I’m wondering how set in stone this schedule is.”

She nattered on about how important each and every thing was on the schedule and how we needed to stay together to be safe.

“Yeah, that’s not going to work for me. I’ll need some down time.”

We stared at one another trying to understand each other’s perspective, but completely failed. Ironically, she was the only other person under the age of fifty on this trip, but rather than feeling a sisterhood, I felt as if she was a species from another planet. Her arms were already breaking out in a rash due to anxiety, she was popping Tums like candy, yet told us she lead several trips to Cuba every year and it was her favorite place. When she mentioned, for the tenth time, that Cubans often did things on their own time frame, I thought she was going to go into cardiac arrest. I decided to let it go for the moment, she had enough problems without me adding to them.

My aunt and uncle were enjoying that last few minutes (or hours, the way it was going) they would have access to the internet to research more cool murals and mosaics to visit in Cuba. Stacy was enjoying the last moments she’d have of cell service, aka access to her boyfriend, and my mom was reading her book, so I scoped out my fellow tour mates. Almost everyone was a couple and they mostly appeared to be in their early to mid sixties. Younger than my parents, but not peers. They were almost all Caucasian and had a Midwest mellow we go with the flow and don’t complain vibe. Except for two older ladies, who I could tell were from New York by their tapping foots, fidgeting, and accents. No one was complaining, they seemed pretty physically and emotionally fit and there were about 30 of us, not hundreds, so as tours went, I figured I’d struck gold with this one.

7:30 came far too early the following morning and Stacy and I groaned as the alarm went off. “What the fuck?” I said after we’d hit snooze as many times as we could, foregoing everything except the essential brush teeth and cover privates with some kind of clothing. “I don’t even get up this early at home, I certainly don’t want to on vacation.”

Motley Crew

We stumbled our way to the restaurant, where surprise, surprise, everyone was already finishing their breakfast. They had backpacks packed, water bottles filled, smiles on their faces, and were reading the paper and chatting with one another. Stacy and I had none of the above. My mom gave us a “bad girls!” scowl while my rebel aunt and uncle waved and smiled. We staggered over to the urn of coffee and I was pleasantly surprised to see a dark thick liquid come out. Nothing puts me in a fouler mood than weak coffee. It’s even worse than having to get up early, which I loathe. Stacy and I stared at each other with amazement after our first sip. “Oh my god! It’s the nectar of the gods.” I said as I refilled my cup, barely refraining from doing a coffee dance and bathing in it.

Fueled by two or three cops of this elixir, we cruised the breakfast buffet and joined our family. Without saying so, Stacy and I knew we weren’t breakfast eaters, but we were hoarders, so while she sliced rolls in half, I passed her meat, cheese and extra napkins. While she filled my mom’s backpack (thank god for moms!) with our sandwiches, I surveyed the buffet for portable fruit and yogurt, and mainlined another cup of Cuban coffee.

While the guide explained the logistics of the day, my mom asked, “Do you have your sun screen? Water bottles? Walking shoes? Sun visors?”

I raised my tennis shoe clad foot proudly to one of her questions, while flip flop adorning Stacy busied herself with more sandwich making.

“You need these things. We’ll be gone all day and it’s already 90 degrees out.”

I told Stacy I’d stall the crowd while she ran back to the room. Half of the group was already out the door and the other was heading that way, but I knew at least a few would need a restroom break and that the sheer volume of the group would slow us down.

Havana

I was wrong.

Within five minutes everyone was standing by our bus where another young, but not nearly as docile and meek, tour guide read off all our names. “She’s coming,” I said when she read Stacy’s name and Alena, our Cuban drill sergeant for the trip I learned, scowled at me.

Everyone loaded on to the bus while I loitered so Stacy could spot me. I would have texted her to hurry, but cell service wasn’t possible. There was nothing I could do but wait and act as if I had to tie my shoe for the tenth time.

She finally arrived, we boarded the bus, grabbed free water bottles out of the cooler provided while giving our mom “see, we would have been fine” looks, and took our seats. I was scared to look at anyone, sure they would be pissed at us, so took the shameful back of the bus seats. As Alena explained the history of Havana (at least the communist’s version) and features of various architecture, Stacy and I discreetly nibbled on our sandwiches.

“She already hates me,” she said.

“I know, we’re screwed. But she really knows a loft about Cuba. I hate to admit it, but I wouldn’t want to be here without someone to explain it. I thought I’d hate that and want to be free range, but in a communist country, good luck learning anything?”

“Even if what she says is biased, she knows her shit.” Stacy agreed.

After a morning tour of the center of Havana, a couple from Missoula approached us and asked where we were from. We bonded over favorite Northwest places and exchanged pleasantries.

“Uh, “ the husband stammered. “How did you come to choose this trip?”

“I’m a blueberry farmer and she’s a writer,” Stacy answered.

Still looking confused, he said, “But I mean, how did you get ten days off?”

“We work for ourselves,” I answered.

The wife seemed to be more curious about our personal lives, so after a couple of vague inquiries, I could tell she assumed we were lovers.

“We’re sisters and that’s our mom (pointed at my mom) and aunt and uncle, the guy with the binoculars chasing birds around.”

“Where are your husbands and children?” she asked.

“At home. They would hate all of the information and only want to swim in the pool all day long.”

“But……”

I helped her out and explained we were both divorced so our kids were used to being with their fathers part of the time.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she said

“Don’t be,” we said in unison.

The husband grinned and continued fishing for information about our work lives and why seemingly young, single women would want to be on a tour with old couples.

“We like traveling with our mom,” I said.

More cool stuff not on the official tour

“And we’re too poor to go on vacations like this on our own,” Stacy said.

I flinched at her bluntness, but then nodded because it was true. When I took trips on my own or with the kids, “nature” and “cabins” were usually a big part of the trip. Flying to exotic countries, not so much.

By lunch time we had plans with several of the couples to meet at the bar for wine before dinner.

“All right, I may be late though. I need to go for a walk by myself for an hour,” I said.

“Good for you!” they cheered.

The next day when we staggered out to the bus (late again) we heard half of the bus say, “Oh good, there are the girls!”

We’d been deemed “the girls” the previous day and wore the name like a princess crown. I had been called “ma’am” for years and if it took flying to Cuba and waking up at 7 to be called a girl instead, I’d gladly do it again and again.

As we boarded the bus, my mom smiled at us and held up a thermos of confiscated Cuban coffee.

“You learn fast,” I said while proudly joining her in the front of the bus. I showed her my backpack, full of water bottles and sun block and earned the “gold star” smile I was looking for.

Flip flop clad Stacy sat down next to me and pulled some of yesterday’s sandwiches out of her backpack. Once she had shared them with me, she looked at her nemesis Alena and said, “Let’s roll.”

Note: This is a seattlepi.com reader blog. It is not written or edited by the P-I. The authors are solely responsible for content. E-mail us at newmedia@seattlepi.com if you consider a post inappropriate.